Winter, and this is like the dead of night.
There might be rain outside, or a wind
that upsets everything, I cannot tell.
There is no light, not even a suggestion
of the moon's light that must be there
somewhere, somehow.
I have imagined sleep, I think, that kind
blanking of sensibilities that allows no
thought but the useless and bizarre.
I have imagined many things: desires
and dependencies, the way in which
pleasures turn to worries and distress,
tarnish a world that had become
golden and complete.
But your words were not imagined.
Each syllable damaged, each adjective
fatal as an arrow to an easy target,
each word risen beyond argument
to the point of delusion.
And now this is a moment of distraction,
winter and no light, unable to guess
at what might wait outside to comfort
those who have become avoided by the pure
light of the sun.